


Forgiveness

by justlikeyouimagined



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Character Death, Episode AU: s02e13 Mizumono, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fisting, Gore, M/M, Not Will or Hannibal, ill-advised wound care, semi-consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeyouimagined/pseuds/justlikeyouimagined
Summary: "Deep inside him: a tender tickling. Like worms, having crawled in through his once-gaping wound, have found residence deep in his gut and are anxiously writhing in an attempt to settle in. He groans again, louder. His limp cock twitches feebly at the thought."Mizumono UA where instead of leaving Will on the kitchen floor, Hannibal has second thoughts and they leave together.





	Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gorefest 2019. Please read tags.

Will is heavier than he was only moments before when they’d left the car. He’s ghostly white; Hannibal would notice that he’d stopped sweating if he wasn’t drenched from the rain. He’s still there though, still with him, breathing still rapid and pained and _ alive. _

“Okay. Here. This way.” He guides Will, half carrying him, into Bedelia’s bedroom. Will collapses himself onto the high thread count of her bedding, flinches more from the agony of being jostled and repositioned than from Hannibal’s touch.

He’s already forgiven him.

Hannibal disappears for several minutes. The rush of blood behind his ears is so heavy, it blocks out external noise. Hannibal is gone long enough for Will’s insecurity to make him think - not entertain, but at least create the idea - that he’s been left alone. _ Why here? _ he thinks with no limit of disgust. To move him to Bedelia’s home only to let him die is too cruel, even for a man who has torn through his gut and, helpless, made him watch Abigail die.

When Hannibal returns, it’s with kitchen knives and a worn-looking but substantial first aid kit. He dumps his armload down beside Will and pivots to collect more materials from the ensuite.

Struggling to stay conscious takes up the majority of Will’s resources, and for a long moment he lays there doing nothing more, his hand pressed weakly over the duct-taped gash that runs the width of his stomach. He replays the sudden shift in Hannibal’s features, the rapid look of shock he’d pulled from him with a few choice words. Moments too late.

“_I see you. I love you.”  
_

Late, but perhaps not entirely too late. It had been enough to get him to see to the bleeding, get him out of the house. Maybe it wasn’t entirely too late, though then again perhaps only someone truly insane would believe he might make it through the night.

Maybe he was absolutely mad.

Awareness comes to him slowly. His fingers twitch, first with little coordination, but soon enough he’s able to wrap them around something sharp and drag it under the pillow. He loses the momentary strength to pull his hand back down; lets it lay still by his head instead. God, it _hurts_.

Will is shaking, is cold, getting colder. For no more than a flash, he remembers how warm it felt with Hannibal holding him together before he fell, useless, near giving up, on the kitchen floor. The thought had struck him as absurd then, with his bowels threatening to drop, but there it had been all the same. There it was again. 

Hannibal comes back with towels, immediately notices the missing instrument and gives a quiet tsk noise. He’s been crying, Will thinks. It’s hard to tell from the rain, but it isn’t just exhaustion painted across his face. 

He finds the tool - a pair of long shears - and replaces them with the rest of the equipment. His gaze hovers over Will’s lips, perhaps in anticipation of hearing some apology that doesn’t come. Will closes his eyes against the pain, grimacing.

The bedside drawer comes out on well-oiled slides, then there is the unmistakable weight of a gun placed down into his open palm. 

“I wanted you to understand. How betrayal felt.” Hannibal says, his hand resting over the gun, over Will’s hand. His lips turn up into the slightest sneer. “I underestimated the effect losing you would have on me. I’m going to make sure you live.”

Will huffs out a heavy, unbelieving breath. Now. Now? The sudden jerking motion of his chest sends pain shooting through his torso, makes him immediately grip at the edges of the duct tape for fear of it coming apart.

Hannibal lets go of the gun and leans up, slowly, his eyes watching for every minuscule tell that might give away Will’s intentions. Eventually, when Will does little more than fumble to twist the piece around in his hand so that he is gripping it more or less how he should - safety still on - Hannibal redirects his focus to what needs his attention most.

Will’s belt comes off, and his pants are unzipped and pulled unceremoniously down well below his hips. His shirt is cut and comes apart in tatters where the knife had sliced through fabric like air. His torso is crimson painted flesh, there isn’t a clean space below his chest. In the middle of it, one long gash of duct tape, clumsily secured by several shorter pieces at the edges.

“Deep breath,” says Hannibal, and rips the tape off without further warning. It’s barely stuck in most places, it comes off easily with minimal tugging. 

Still, Will suppresses a wail.

He holds his hand tightly over the gash, but even still the flaps of skin part easily wherever he cannot gather. The air against his insides steams lightly, but the overwhelming cold penetrates him even here.

With a look of some degree of empathy, Hannibal gently places his hand over Will’s and begins to peel his fingers away from the opening. Will starts hyperventilating, eyes locked on the slowed bubbling red still coming from his stomach. He’s open where he never should be.

Hannibal begins working quickly, and with easy confidence. Any sign of compassion for Will’s position melts away as he concentrates, first giving the space a cursory clean, then swiftly moving his fingers in to begin probing the exposed organs to exclude the possibility of internal bleeding or tears. 

At first, Will keeps the noises caught in his throat, his eyes locked on the long adept fingers as they move about and inside him. But the longer it takes, the more intrusive Hannibal becomes, the less he cares about protocol. Hannibal submits a gloved finger deep into his entrails, slides along the small intestine, and Will lets out the agony he’s unwilling to hold in any further. Tears drip down his face, one after the other after the other.

To Will, this inspection goes on for decades. Surely a nick would have made itself apparent long before now. He supposes it’s a good thing that Hannibal is being thorough, though then again it really fucking hurts. In his right hand: the handle of the gun, he clutches it in an effort to dispel the pain in his torso through the cramping ache of his grip upon the metal. 

Hannibal notices, and soon pulls his fingers out of Will. He barely feels when Hannibal begins to stitch him up. The feeling of a small curved needle piercing again and again through his skin is such a distant sensation that it barely registers against the rest of the pain. 

When he finishes, he watches Hannibal pull up the sheets, take away the soiled linens, then return to his beside to observe. He wants so badly to close his eyes, quiet the whooshing behind his ears, a reprieve from the pain that seems to resonate with every thunderous thump thump of his tired heart. When it’s not worth fighting anymore, the world slides into darkness. What’s the use of staying vigilant when you’d be hard pressed to sit up without assistance. Come what may, or so it goes, or some nihilistic bullshit like that. 

He blinks a few times, but when he focuses his eyes again, it's on Hannibal, hair nearly dry, dress again in dress shirt and trousers beside him. He's showered, cleaned off the gore from the evening. His face is blank, though his mind whirls behind his eyes. Some weighing of scales, some balancing of risks and rewards. Will works his mouth open to speak, lets out a detached groggy groan instead. Feels better for the warm press of Hannibal’s hand against his cheek before his eyes fall heavily closed once more. 

It feels good, Hannibal’s touch. The way he traces the edge of his jaw like that. His head tilts, minutely, but it’s enough encouragement for them to slide over, down, across the muscles gliding down his neck. It feels good, and he hums quietly, more to himself and closes his eyes. Then, he doesn’t feel anything any longer. 

When he comes to again, Hannibal’s touch with Will is gentler, though not tentative. When he acts, it's a resolved movement. He does not question whether it is right to touch. Finally fate and consequences allow it, and so his touch is soaked in adoration.

His fingers trace the edge of the blanket, slip past his lower abdomen to leave the tender space that is red raw, stitched up. His fingers travel down, and Will realizes groggily that they don't intend to stop.

Hannibal skims his touch over his hips, then pulls the blanket off with a humiliating confidence. Will twitches in response, bared open to him like this. Vulnerability or a quiet curiosity freezing him in place. 

It feels good, the attention. Even from Hannibal. Especially from Hannibal. A sort of apology, if he were ever to deem himself wrong enough in his actions to apologize. The way he skips across his skin, up and down, over the smooth hairs on his thighs - it's a comfort. Soon, the touch of Hannibal's hands grow fainter and he's out again before he can debate it.

When he wakes again, he's been shifted. Everything hurts but in a complementary way from before. The searing pain by the stitches is there, where his flesh betrayed him and parted like butter at a hot knife. The new feeling is somewhere deeper, more visceral than viscera. He lets out a long, confused wail.

Deep inside him: a tender tickling. Like worms, having crawled in through his once-gaping wound, have found residence deep in his gut and are anxiously writhing in an attempt to settle in. He groans again, louder. His limp cock twitches feebly at the thought.

A rumbling satisfied purr responds, and only then does he feel how hot he has become, how crowded Hannibal has made him. Careful not to put pressure against the stitches, Hannibal has nevertheless twisted him up and around in such a fashion that he is virtually laying on top of his side, his one arm propping his weight away from Will, while the other… wiggles.

"Nneh… Hannehbal, no," he struggles to let out, but the words slip and slide together into a slur. The tickle, somewhere deep inside him falters for a moment, then picks up its pace.

"Shhh," Hannibal says, to no one in particular, to the nearly silent house. "Shh", then twists and pushes two more fingers in.

Will slips out of consciousness before he takes his fist, but not before he manages to focus in on the wriggle to finally understand just what exactly is happening.

He notices the jostling first, the way his hair slides on the smooth pillowcase, up and down. When he is aware enough, it’s the fiery burn of his ass that grabs his attention, followed shortly after by a sensational feeling of fullness that makes him nearly gag from the pressure.

Finally, distantly, the urgent churning pleasure underneath the pain - nearly completely masked by it. He groans on reflex, almost certainly from the discomfort.

When he can open his eyes, he sees Hannibal, still dressed but taken apart, his damp hair falling over blasted pupils, just shy of ruddy cheeks. Will is stripped bare now, not even the thin covers playing at discretion. He’s been tilted over slightly again, his leg propped up on Hannibal’s shoulder. 

With great effort, he struggles to keen his neck forward to see the situation more clearly. The way he’s moving, it’s hard for his bleary eyes to focus on anything for a long time. But then he sees it, the way Hannibal’s dress shirt is rolled up to above the elbow, the thick sheen of some sort of lubricant up well past his wrist. The unmistakable angle of their bodies, so he knows exactly whose powerful movements are rocking him back and forth on Bedelia’s bed.

The next sound he makes is a half wail, half cry of ecstasy. The pain he feels is extraordinary. Laced with it, the most intense sense of connection he’s ever experienced. There’s a blurring between their bodies; he can feel Hannibal not only inside him, but can imagine the way his muscles must strain under the internal pressure, the cramping of his forearm, the slight twinge in his back for keeping at this unforgiving angle. He should be furious, should be terrified, but neither of those emotions touch him now.

His noises alert Hannibal that he’s regained consciousness, and for a brief flash, Will thinks he sees a flash of something cross his features. Nothing as self-defamatory as regret, but perhaps its cousin. Whatever Hannibal knows of shame, he may have experienced it then, if only for a fraction of a second.

When it leaves, it’s replaced with a determinism that Will feels - very literally - in the base of his gut. The insistent but gentle jostling stops suddenly.

For a long moment, Hannibal doesn’t move except for his heavy breathing. A bead of sweat drips from beneath his fringe. He feels something inside him _ shift _ and before he can make sense of it, he’s flooded with an impending doom that caves his chest and pulls from him a sudden and sincere whimper of loss.

It’s enthusiastic enough a noise for Hannibal, and he twists his hand again. Not to pull out as he had feared he might do, but in a way that he imagines Hannibal’s fingers inside him curl. Suddenly, a horrific stabbing pain shoots through him, the epicenter coming somewhere vaguely between his stitches and the tips of Hannibal’s nails.

Hannibal sees him whimper, his eyes rolling back briefly before he tries to regain his focus. “Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream.”

While his eyes are heavy, his body on fire, the last thing he wants to do is slip away. Not when Hannibal has claimed him like this, merged their bodies so formidably that he can barely distinguish between inside and out. Instead he grits his teeth and throws his hands up by his head in a clear sign of submission. He’s in no state to fight anyway.

Come what may.

The same exaggerated shooting spark of pain pulls deep in him, but he keeps his eyes hard on Hannibal, on his forearm, on the way the muscle undulate and work to move so deftly inside him. The sensation is nearly nauseating, but he can’t even bring himself to speak up or try to calm things down.

Nevertheless, he feels the tell-tale twitch of his cock’s interest. He won’t get fully hard - not in this state - but the evidence of his interest twinges again just in front of Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal lets out a satisfied rumble from deep in his chest, and then _ twists _ , twists so roughly that the veins stand out on his forearm. Will is momentarily lifted up with the force of it and a renewed burn ignites from the wound’s one side to the other.

Will’s hand shifts and slips onto something hard. He remembers the gun. He focuses himself away from his insides and puts all of his energy towards moving his hand, gripping it from its base, swerving it round until it points unsteadily but clearly at Hannibal’s panting chest. He flicks the safety off.

Another electric sweep of pain from inside, and Will nearly pulls the trigger then from the staggering surprise of it. With no less than all of his resolve, he aims to keep the gun steady and pointing where he knows it’ll be a kill shot.

Hannibal pauses but doesn’t pull out. He lets out a deflated breath. “This doesn’t look like forgiveness, Will.”

He shakes with the effort of forming words, but still he lets out a huff of amusement. His saliva sticks his tongue to his mouth like tacky glue. It peels away when he speaks. “I still..” he coughs, and the horror of the contraction around both his wound and Hannibal’s arm makes him nearly pass out. “I still see you.”

Hannibal closes his eyes against the force of the truth, and bows his head in acknowledgement. “And I you. I won’t let that go to waste.”

Understanding passes between each other. Slowly, achingly slowly, Will lets the gun lay on the mattress. Looking up more than at Hannibal, he makes a shuddering nod. 

A petite gasp comes from the bedroom door. Will has picked up the gun again, aimed and shot before he fully recognizes Bedelia in the doorway. When she staggers and comes into his focus, he shoots again. Two bullets, right to the chest.

Hannibal turns slowly to take in the sudden change of scene. He turns back to Will, his eyes glinting with amusement. Delicately, he lets his fingers recurl within Will, slides out a fraction before beginning anew. Will goes under before Bedelia’s blood stops steaming onto the hardwood.

He cannot succumb against tortuous reality much longer - the pain is too exceptional to allow him to slip more than half way unconscious for more than a few moments at a time. All the while, Hannibal shows no signs of stopping, despite his promise to see him make it out of the night alive. Will wonders to himself how he can place his trust so blindly into such a man. 

But it isn’t blind, is it? The pain is blinding; the satisfaction of having killed _ her _ \- that’s blinding. The trust, it has been earned, slowly and unconventionally, but earned all the same. They understand one another now; trust flows implicitly from understanding.

With great effort, Will tries to move himself away from his side, so that he might better see the damage Hannibal has done to him from the inside out. He allows the shift, repositions himself so that Hannibal is between splayed legs at the end of the bed, looking up in admiration at Will above. 

The sutures have held, but just below them, he can see the hardness of his stomach that speaks candidly of internal bleeding. Hannibal has stopped the jostling thrusting of his fist, uncurled his fingers and settled himself deep inside Will. Very gently, as gently as he can manage such a horrific feat, Will tentatively places his hand just below the sutures, feels the scrambling, wriggling motion of Hannibal inside. He sees the movement of Hannibal’s fingers and God - does it hurt more than he thought possible. But if they understand each other - if they truly see - then he doesn’t want it to end. Not yet.

He groans in pain: in tremendous exaltation. 

The world is on fire around him, so much so that he has to rely on Hannibal’s momentary surprised pause more than the pain to understand that he’s been breached from inside. For a moment, Hannibal looks as though he might stop, but there is an appreciation of consequences with them, an interpretation of what is about to come, a memory of what he’s promised before.

“I will keep you alive,” he repeats, then pushes full force through. 

Will’s vision shoots fireworks, bright white and hazy around the edges. He screams, for how could he not? Instinctively, he throws his hand down towards the pain, only to feel fingers wiggling back up at him. Hannibal has punctured him from the inside, and now he is out. He can once again feel his fingers, slick with blood.

From inside him, Hannibal stretches his hand. From outside, Will screams again, then grabs the outstretched fingers. With a sickening ripping of sutures and skin, he pulls, then grabs hold of Hannibal’s hand from where it emerges from his smile. 

With his last effort he squeezes Hannibal’s hand, then falls blissful into the dark. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm on twitter as @trikemily - DMs are open and welcomed.


End file.
